


Halfway to Halfway There

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Crying, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert and Valjean struggle to understand each other through the years—but it gets easier, in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Toulon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [kinkmeme](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=618785#t618785). The prompt was 'Javert always cries during sex' and I managed to churn out...this. I don't know, either.

"You never learn your lesson, do you?" 

Valjean does not rise to the bait. His back burns with lashes, and he is hungry, and tired, and would like to sleep. His latest escape attempt has landed him in solitary, which is a double-edged sword—moreso because Javert is on duty. Valjean does not doubt that the man requested it. 

"I should think that you would have learned it long ago. Still, perhaps it's silly to think a criminal can learn anything—though we do hope that your type might learn to fear the lash. Tell me, 24601, how does your back feel?" 

_Don't look at him,_ Valjean thinks. It is a rare thing for Javert to handle the lash, for he is young and the other guards complain that his arm is too weak to leave a sufficient mark. Not so today. One of the wounds has not fully closed, yet, and the back of his shirt is sticky with blood. Javert may not have the bloodlust that other guards do, but when he punishes, he does so when justified, and does so cruelly. For whatever reason, Valjean especially seems to inspire this in him—perhaps it's because he has never been beaten out of himself, or perhaps it's because Valjean does not always lower his gaze when he finds Javert watching him.

"Answer me when I ask you a question, 24601." 

"It hurts, sir," he says. "I'm bleeding."

"Bleeding?" Javert pauses. "Let me see." 

Valjean grits his teeth and pushes off the straw. A bit of light shines through the barred window of the door, though most of it is blocked by Javert. He stands in the humble circle of light and turns so Javert can see the bloodied shirt. 

Javert clears his throat. "I'm coming in. Do not move."

The keys screech on the other side of the door, and then Javert enters. Valjean remains still, obeying his command, but he bristles as Javert steps close. The guard is inscrutable on bad days, when his only inclination is to scowl and snap—his good days are worse, and today is a very good day. Though it seems unlikely, Valjean wonders if he will reopen the wounds just for the pleasure of it. 

Javert rolls the shirt up; Valjean, determined to not make a sound, grits his teeth against the chafing of the fabric. Then he reaches the open wound and Valjean groans in pain. 

Javert sucks in a sharp breath. The noise would be sympathetic coming from anyone else. "I see. You'll..." His swallow is audible. "You'll need the infirmary. What a waste of resources," he grumbles. "How careless. Come with me." Javert drops the shirt and rolls his cudgel along Valjean's neck, guiding him around like a horse.

But Valjean has had enough. His anger is a bitter one, one that has had many long years to cultivate inside him. Hope, when crushed, becomes the tinder for that anger, and the humiliating punishment at the hand of this guard is black oil. And now this man insists on taking Valjean to the infirmary? He dares to touch Valjean like this?

With a snarl, Valjean whirls around and shoves Javert with all his strength—he slams into the wall and Valjean follows, cornering him. The cudgel rolls uselessly on the floor. Valjean is cuffed, but he is strong, much stronger than this willow of a boy, and his anger lends him strength. They struggle—Javert turns his head to the side, about to scream—and Valjean bites his mouth, vicious, hoping to draw blood.

Javert moans. 

The struggle has changed. Valjean's pulse is heavy between his legs, and he wants nothing more than to crush Javert, to bite him and take him. He thinks he might—with one of Javert's hands captive and his full weight keeping Javert cornered, he has the upper hand. 

Then Javert scratches his back. 

Valjean roars with pain and falls back, but Javert follows him, grabs his cudgel from the ground and lands a blow on Valjean's shoulder, and then Valjean is on his back and the pain is exploding through him in waves and Javert is on top of him—Valjean's cock is half-hard and Javert grinds against it, the cudgel at Valjean's throat. Valjean stills, panting, back arched so the worst of the pain ebbs away. Javert moves his cuffed hands so they're over his head and smirks down at him, a horrible sight. 

"You see?" he gasps. "You just never learn, 24601." Pleasure passes over his face and he shudders, bends low, and does not speak again. His hips rut into Valjean's, desperate and quick, more animal than human.

It's difficult to breathe, but through the discomfort and the pain, Valjean has time to watch Javert. It surprises him to find that the man, though in the better position, appears more anguished than Valjean feels, and his agony seems to grow sharper by the second—he looks almost like he might—

—a tear slips from the corner of his eye. His lip trembles. 

Valjean, stunned, does not know what to do or say. He becomes very still, his hips unresponsive to Javert's thrusts, his chest hardly moving with breath. He doesn't want to feel pity for this man—not with the memory of the whip at the forefront of his mind, the pain fresh with each rock of Javert's hips—but he can't find it in him to feel ill will toward him in this moment. Another tear drips from his face and lands in Valjean's beard. 

As abruptly as this began, it ends. Javert stumbles off of him, trousers still straining with his erection. He lets out a strangled noise and covers his face with both hands. "Don't look at me," he chokes. "Do you—do you hear me, 24601?"

Valjean shuts his eyes.

Javert's breathing is labored for several more minutes, and then, finally, blessedly, he quiets. Valjean listens to him stand, his boots scratching at the straw-covered floor. 

When he speaks, it is in the irascible voice that Valjean knows. "Get up," he snaps. "That wound needs to be dressed. So help me, 24601, if you struggle, you will wish you hadn't."

Valjean does not look at Javert as he stands, nor when Javert takes his cuffs and forcibly leads him out of the cell. Whatever phantom possessed Javert has left. It is only when they've reached the doors of the infirmary that Valjean dares to look into his face. The expression is stony and unreadable, the eyes dry. 

The glance is meaningless—he learns nothing.


	2. Montreuil sur Mer

"Forgive me, Monsieur, but I cannot."

Madeleine is not refused many things. The citizens of Montreuil sur Mer are grateful for their benevolent mayor, and so when he, on the rare occasion, has need to ask for something, he is always met with assent. It's fitting, he supposes, that he's finally being declined by the formidable Inspector Javert. Still, the nature of his request had been mild at most. Madeleine can't help but be amused. "You cannot?" he repeats. 

"I still have my rounds to make," Javert explains, looking down. "Even if that were not so, sir, I would not intrude on your hospitality." 

But there is something about the way that Javert avoids his gaze that suggests another layer, one hidden. Madeleine is curious, and the memory of chains weighs on him like a physical thing. An ugly part of him, the prisoner who's never died, enjoys Javert's discomfort. "Inspector, I insist. Just one meal, and if it's so horrible, then I shall never suggest it again. At the very least, you can give me your report as we eat."

Javert's face goes through many interesting changes in rapid succession: Madeleine does not doubt that if he were in a different uniform, he would be snarling and bracing a cudgel against his neck. With a congenial smile, Madeleine wraps an arm around Javert's shoulders. The tension it produces is palpable, but Javert does not resist and does not move away; he awkwardly follows Madeleine's lead. When they leave the privacy of the factory and Madeleine releases him, he visibly relaxes and moves so he can walk several paces away from Madeleine.

The spring air is warm and reviving, and the sun is low on the horizon, casting the town in warm golden colors that melt into each other. The citizens on the street wave merrily at their M. le Maire, and some even spare a greeting for Javert. Madeleine takes the long way home, and cuts corners so that their shoulders brush. Javert is as tight-lipped as he's ever been, but this silence is as golden as the sunset.

Dinner is ready by the time they've arrived. Javert hunches in his offered chair and eats carefully, but does not deny the two more servings that Madeleine pushes onto him. So his suspicions were right. It's only once he's finished eating that he gives his report—he walks around to Madeleine's side of the table and stands in front of him, hands loose at his sides, staring at the wall as he talks. Madeleine leans back in his chair, relaxed. He knows Javert has his suspicions; he knows he's being a fool to play like this. 

Javert clears his throat. "That is all, Monsieur."

"Very good—thank you, Inspector." He pauses, watching Javert closely, playing with the rim of his glass. "Tell me, Javert, how was it?"

"Pardon me?"

"Dinner," Madeleine says. "How was dinner?"

"You are too generous," Javert says, and bows his head. "It was...very good." His gaze flickers up from the floor, but does not reach Madeleine's face.

Madeleine has seen enough. He straightens in his chair, ready to dismiss Javert—but before he can, Javert swallows convulsively and kneels down. Madeleine stares, stunned. He had expected that Javert's spell with Valjean had carried over, whether consciously or not, onto Madeleine, but he never thought that Javert would actually act on it—and certainly not like this. 

"Is there anything M. le Maire requires before I go?" Javert asks without looking up from the floor. He is far enough away that he would have to stretch to touch Madeleine's knee. If Madeleine dismissed him, they could remember this as an innocent overture from a man who respects M. le Maire. But Madeleine is flushed and warm, and his heartbeat is between his legs in anticipation. He remembers another man's blood and bruises. He remembers Javert's terrible smile.

He says, "Come closer."

Javert crawls forward. The movement alone is enough to make Madeleine's heart jump—his doubts are crumbling as Javert stops at his feet. Though he knows that his desires are beastly, Madeleine cannot deny the sharp arousal within him.

"My boots," he hears himself say, as if from another man, "are dirty."

Javert bends down. His face flushes as he nears Madeleine's left foot, and he pauses for a moment, his breath misting the fine leather. It is a difficult thing to believe that this is the same man who tormented Valjean in prison, who beat him, who, upon arriving in Montreuil sur Mer, watched Madeleine with narrowed eyes. Madeleine's cock begins to stiffen as Javert hesitates, bent low.

Then, he tilts his head as one would for a kiss, and he licks the tip of Madeleine's boot. Madeleine moans without meaning to and clamps his hand tightly over his mouth—but Javert does not acknowledge the sound in any way, and merely licks a longer path along his boot, slowly. _He's actually enjoying this,_ Madeleine thinks. His cock is tight against his trousers, and Madeleine represses the urge to touch himself. 

Taking his time, Javert licks the boot until it is shining with his spit. His breath is deep and slow, and his face is flushed; his hands are in tight fists on the floor. Madeleine wants to know how aroused he is—does he burn like Madeleine? Once Javert has finished with the left boot, he kisses the tip. He does not hesitate to start on the right one. His labored breathing goes straight to Valjean's cock; each wet lick is as affecting as if he were tasting Valjean's cock instead of his boot. Valjean arches his back. 

When Javert finishes with the right boot, he moves to sit up—but Valjean puts his foot on Javert's shoulder and shoves him back down, slamming his nose into the ground. "You missed a spot, Inspector." 

Javert groans and shudders. "Forgive me, Monsieur."

The pressure is too much; the trousers chafe. Valjean undoes his trousers and pulls out his cock. One hand remains clamped to his mouth, for he does not trust what he might say or do, and the other rests on the inside of his thigh, so that he can brush the edge of his prick with his thumb. Javert obediently licks the spotless boot, taking care to tease his tongue along each seam and crevice. 

"Look at me," Valjean says. Javert does not, pressing his closed mouth to the boot. "Javert. Look at me." 

"Monsieur le Maire," he starts—but whatever argument he had withers on his tongue. He swallows and lifts his head, straining his neck. If he means to look into Valjean's face, it is an unsuccessful attempt—he openly stares at Valjean's cock, color high in his cheeks. Valjean takes his foot off his shoulder, and, without being asked, Javert straightens up and mouths the head of his cock.

Valjean rests a hand on Javert's shoulder and bucks up against his mouth—God should damn him for this. He moans, unabashed, as Javert tentatively takes his cock in his mouth, swallows—takes more, and swallows again, his tongue testing uncertainly at the underside of his cock. When Valjean moans again in encouragement, he begins to suck lightly, shifting so he can fuck his mouth on Valjean. 

Valjean reaches up to stroke Javert's hair—but the man squeezes his eyes shut convulsively against it and chokes. Thinking something's gone wrong, Valjean tries to pull his prick away, but Javert takes to it with more fervor than before, sucking and bobbing his head awkwardly over the length of his cock. 

A tear drips down his cheek. 

That is enough—Valjean comes, spending himself against Javert's throat, and as the man chokes down the emissions he begins to cry in earnest, low, muffled sobs that vibrate through Valjean. His shame is bright in his face, but he can't seem to stop; once Valjean has finished, he pulls away and bends over himself, wiping at the tears. Javert's shoulders shake, and he whimpers, an ugly noise that is a knife in Valjean. 

"Javert," Valjean says, breathless, "why did you do this? I would not make you if you didn't—" But, Valjean thinks with a lurch, would he have let Javert leave in peace? He had been so pleased with Javert's reticence, had pushed and needled until the Inspector was on his knees. 

"No, Monsieur," Javert says, "no, it is nothing. You've done nothing." However he may protest, his voice is wretched with tears, and he keeps low to the ground, curled in on himself. Valjean wants to vomit. "There—Monsieur, all is well." He lifts his head and smiles with red eyes. "But," he adds, hastily rising to his feet, "my rounds, Monsieur; you understand. I have been overlong here." He scrubs a vicious hand through his hair where Valjean touched him. "Have a good evening, Monsieur," and he is already at the door, and Valjean is reaching out to stop him—

But it is too late, and the door slams, and he cannot.


	3. Café Musain

"How right you should kill with a knife."

Valjean will never understand this man, but he at least understands this. If their positions were switched, he does not doubt that Javert would have him taken away—and he would not blame him. Javert does not have that luxury. He has much to blame Valjean for. 

It is not guilt that drives Valjean to cut the rope, but guilt is chained around his heart.

"I don't understand." Though he must be exhausted and in pain, Javert's head remains high, his posture a shield. 

Perhaps this will be at least one brick laid on the road to salvation. Valjean hopes so. "Get out of here," he says. 

But Javert does not move. It is too dark to see more than the outline of his body, the coiled aggression so at odds with the way Javert presses himself against the wall, as if trying to put as much space between them as possible.

"Clear out of here!" Valjean says, and makes the mistake of touching Javert's arm.

Javert seizes him by the collar and yanks him forward. The knife, still clutched in Valjean's hand, skitters across Javert's side before he has the sense to drop it—if it made its mark, Javert does not show it. "Is that it?" he asks. His breath is hot on Valjean's face. His eyes gleam in the darkness. "You would trade your life for mine? Kill me now if you wish, but do not expect mercy from me. Don't think your theft is so impressive that I would hand myself over to you." 

"You are wrong." Valjean grasps Javert's hands in his; they tighten convulsively on Valjean's coat. "You have always been wrong." 

"Have I been?" Javert asks. He releases Valjean and grips him between the legs. It's a warning, more than anything, his fingers tight on Valjean's prick, one hand twisting still on Valjean's coat. Valjean jerks against his hand and grits his teeth. "Once a thief, always a thief."

Valjean bows his head, anchored by his past. Arousal pulses through him as Javert's hold relaxes until he's cupping the weight of Valjean's cock. "I am no worse than any other man," Valjean says. 

Javert sneers and palms Valjean through his trousers. His touch is hot, or Valjean is radiating heat, or they feed off each other—Valjean swallowing down Javert's hate, Javert twisting his benevolence into something ugly. For a moment Valjean wishes to see into his face, but Javert keeps his head turned, and the shadows in the alleyway are complete. They are two shades, hiding from each other. Javert goes to unbutton Valjean's trousers. 

"There's no time, Javert—the boys will grow suspicious."

"Then kill me quickly and have it done." He grips Valjean's neck. Does he feel Valjean's heartbeat there, and does it move him? Valjean does not know. 

Javert teases Valjean's cock from his trousers and begins to take him with slow, sure strokes. Valjean presses against him, arms against the wall, wishing to touch his forehead to Javert's but certain it would be unwelcome. If Javert wants to have this, he may. 

He stiffens as Javert strokes him; the pleasure is hot candlewax dripping in him; he is becoming a lit hearth. Javert's hand remains on his neck, a light pressure. His breath quickens. Valjean cups the back of Javert's neck—he can feel each sharp inhale that Javert takes, can feel it from his ear to his cock, where it settles in a steady rhythm counter to the strokes that are bringing him apart.

As such, he feels the first hitch of distress. Valjean thumbs at his cheek, close enough that he could catch a tear on its pad if one were to come. Javert's teeth bare against his shoulder—his hand slides to the back of Valjean's neck, slips down until it comes to rest between his shoulder blades, where old scars crisscross. 

Valjean swallows. "Why do you pursue me if it distresses you so?" 

Javert has no answer to that, and he doubts very much that the man has one for himself. His hand becomes a punishing thing: He wrings pleasure out of Valjean in angry jerks. 

When Valjean comes, it is quick, and he derives little pleasure from it. That, at least, would sate Javert. 

Javert shoves him away. Valjean blinks at him, unsurprised, his prick hanging out of his trousers. Javert looks at his dirtied hand, then at Valjean, and smears the spend on Valjean's coat. It is too dark to know for sure by sight—but there is wetness on his cheeks, and Valjean felt his shuddering breaths, and he knows this time is no exception. "Javert," he says, reaching out to him—this time, he is close enough, has moved soon enough, and this time, Javert scrapes away along the wall, shirking his touch.

"I shall not yield, Jean Valjean," he growls, and his voice is rough as granite. He turns his back to Valjean. 

Valjean levels the gun. If this is the price he must pay for Javert's life, so be it. No more blood, he thinks. No more regrets. 

The brick shatters. It doesn't matter that Valjean's mark is true—Javert is already dead.


	4. Between Notre Dame and the Palais de Justice

"I am not your charge." 

Javert is poised on the edge of the parapet, close enough that Valjean could grab him, if only he weren't so afraid of startling him into jumping. Despite his precarious position, he is composed. If it were not Valjean who had found him, the conversation might even be civil. 

"I am not your child or your friend. You have no duty to me. I want nothing from you. Does it not follow, Valjean, that it is not such a terrible thing for me to be left alone?" 

"I told you," Valjean says, struggling to keep calm, "that I would see our debts paid."

"And they have been." The words seem to startle Javert as much as they do Valjean; he shudders and wipes at his mouth. 

"Come down, then, Javert. Let us go talk somewhere in peace. It is not too late." 

Javert laughs, a wretched sound. He begins to pace up and down the parapet, and his shoes line the stone edge with a precision that makes Valjean's heart leap in his throat and stay there. "You could never understand, Valjean. Madeleine. 24601. Which are you? You think yourself so righteous, well, so be it!" Javert stops with his back to Notre Dame; he is just out of reach, and the distance seems insurmountable. "I do not want your mercy or your grace. I do not want anything from you."

"I do not believe it," Valjean says, "and I do not think you do, either." 

Javert turns away. Notre Dame's imposing outline is visible in the black night, and Javert tilts his head to study it. He turns to the Seine. His fists clench. 

"Come down, my friend," Valjean cajoles. "I only wish to talk." 

Javert does not move. He does not speak. Valjean dares only to take a few slow steps closer; if Javert were to lurch off the parapet, he prays that he is close enough that he could grab the man, but it is not a sure thing. A gust of wind blows over the bridge, so that Javert's coat flaps in the wind like wings—he leans forward—but his feet remain grounded on the thin ledge. Tears sting Valjean's eyes—if only God's hand might guide them both to safety. "My life," Javert mutters, "has been devoted to the law. I've wanted nothing more than to see justice served. Do you understand, 24601? Do you see to what lengths you have degraded me? Your mercy is a noose. You should have left me to the cannons." All this is said without a single movement, as if he has turned to stone, doomed to forever gaze into the Seine and the darkness in his soul. 

"I do not understand..."

"No, of course not. I cannot arrest you, Valjean. I cannot let you walk free." Javert lifts his head and stares down at Valjean; his fists relax. There is a calmness about him that is as frightening as a death rattle. The toe of his shoe scrapes against the edge of the parapet. "I feel His eyes on me and I cannot move." 

"You are not beyond salvation." Valjean offers his open arms as he might to a child; his fingertips touch Javert's coattails. "Come here. Please. I beg of you, Javert, give me but one hour. You may have the rest." 

Javert shakes his head, but he does not pull away; he studies Valjean's outstretched hands as if they are unknown territory. "You're not listening. I tell you my life is a farce and you ask for another hour of it?—Well, take it, then, but do not ask for my gratitude. I will not snivel at your feet like a dog.” 

And Javert climbs down, taking shelter.


	5. Rue de l'Homme-Armé, No. 5

"Where are we going?"

"To my home." Valjean glances at Javert, who seems to have lost the strength that supported him on the parapet. He is as composed as ever, but there is a loose listlessness in the way he walks, and his chin cannot seem to stay level. Valjean notes the bruising by his hairline. "It is a fair distance—is that alright?"

Javert does not answer. Troubled by his silence, Valjean walks closer to him, so their shoulders touch—he accepts the contact without remark. They do not meet anyone on the street as they go; when a quarter hour has passed, Javert lifts his head. "This counts as part of your hour."

"I know." 

Javert gives him a sidelong glance. "This is a strange sort of talking," he says. 

"Does it bother you?"

"Much less than your prattling on the bridge." 

Valjean sighs. He knows he has done the right thing, but the right thing is rarely easy, and the burden of this borrowed hour hangs heavily on his heart. He is aware, as they walk in silence, of how little he knows about Javert. Their past is fraught with pain and misunderstandings; though they walk shoulder-to-shoulder as old friends might, the road they walk together is one where the cobblestones stick out like teeth and their feet are bound to get cut. 

They lapse into silence until they reach the corner of Rue de l'Homme-Armé. There, Valjean stops, and touches Javert's shoulder, insisting with it the importance of his words. "My daughter lives with me there," he says. "Whatever is said, Javert, I ask only that you keep that in mind."

"If you don't want her to hear a spirit's moaning, you shouldn't invite the dead into your home." He pauses. Something of Valjean's anger must have shown on his face, because he looks away and says, "She won't be troubled by me." 

That will suffice, Valjean thinks, and he leads Javert to the gate and through the garden. As they pass a rosebush, Javert passes his fingers over an unopened bloom, so gently that it does not sway. 

Inside, Javert seems so discomfited at the prospect of sitting in a comfortable chair that Valjean suggests they retire to the kitchen, which also happens to be the furthest room from Cosette's. There is a small wooden table in there with two stools, and Javert takes the one that faces the door. Valjean, so used to seeing Cosette's delicate form perched on the stool, is amused by the contrast he provides.

"How do you take your tea?" he asks, starting a fire in the stove. 

"Tea?" Javert blinks at him. "You're making me tea?"

"It is a good night for tea." 

"You're wasting time." There is something raw in Javert's voice, something on the cusp of anger. Valjean sets the kettle on the stove before turning. Javert's eyes are dry. "You've only an hour to say what you will, and you've wasted almost half of it on a leisurely stroll—now you'll waste more of it on tea?"

"It is not a waste." 

Javert recoils as if struck. "You—" He stops, glances towards the open doorway, and lowers his voice. "You know what I am and what I would gladly take from you. At the barricade you were within your rights to kill me. I would not have blamed you there. I would have welcomed—"

"Why are you so quick to throw your life away?" Valjean asks. He leans against the counter and folds his arms. The only light in the room is from the stove. The glow is hellish on Javert.

"My life has never mattered. I only cared to see the thief I thought you were," Javert says. "Any blow or knife or touch would do to prove what you were—yet here you stand like a saint, and I cannot see chains around your neck. What are you, Valjean? Who has sent you to me?"

It takes all of Valjean's strength to not turn away; Javert's pain is a physical blow, like a lash on his back, like a wound that will not close. "God guides me wherever I go," he says. It is the easiest part to answer, and the thing Javert does not need to hear. Valjean swallows. "I do not try to understand why. I felt his hand on me tonight and I obeyed. That is all."

Javert lowers his head. Whatever has held him through the night thus far leaves him, and he hunches forward. Where the thought of suicide empowered him, the mention of God has broken him. This, at least, does not inspire any guilt in Valjean. He is not afraid, anymore, not of what Javert might do nor what he might drive Valjean to do.

The kettle whistles, and Valjean is quick to take it from the heat. If Cosette has heard it, she will hopefully think it is just a matter of Valjean being unable to sleep, and will stay in bed. He is not sure how he would explain Javert to her. He's not even sure how to explain Javert to himself. Javert does not speak as he makes the tea, and even as it steeps they maintain that silence, broken only by the cracking of the wood in the stove as it is taken apart. When Valjean sets out the cream and sugar, he glances at Javert, hoping to find some answers there—but the man is only tired, and his face dry. 

Once the tea has steeped, Valjean hands Javert his cup. As he mixes cream into his own, Javert toys with the sugar, but decides against it and takes a sip of the plain tea. It seems such a silly thing to deny himself that Valjean wants to laugh. 

Instead, he leans on his elbows and studies Javert. His hour is close to done. "My name is Jean Valjean, and that is all I am," he says. "I slaved in Toulon for nineteen years for trying to feed starving children—yes, had I not tried to escape, it would have been a shorter sentence, but that is the end of it. Nineteen years for a loaf of bread. That is what I see when I think of those years. I do not remember the faces of those children anymore, nor their voices. Toulon took that from me." He stops, anticipating a cutting remark—but Javert does not look up from his tea. "I should not have been saved. I should be no better than a rat. There was nothing left for me in this world but pain and fear and misery, but God graced me with a second life. 

"My happiness," he continues, "is the product of that second life, but I am at my heart the man I've always been. I have never been the convict you sought. I am not the mayor you served. I wish only to give back to the world all it has given me."

"A sweet fairytale," Javert mutters. 

Valjean wishes to take him by the face and force him to focus. "For all you berated me for not listening, Javert, you're doing a poor job of it now. You are not beyond redemption. Your suffering is not insurmountable. These things are not a matter of what we think we deserve."

"You tear the blinders from me and force me to look at my deeds, then tell me I am not beyond redemption? Then you do not know me. I am a slave to the law, Valjean, and its orders forsake God's mercy. Do you know what blood is on my hands? For I do not, and can only feel it dripping. I cannot wash it away, and I cannot continue as I have without the scent of it on me wherever I go." Javert takes a long drink. "If I walk into His light, He will welcome me, and I cannot accept that. I must be punished." He looks into Valjean's face, seeking his soul. "Do not think my decision is one of fanciful despair."

Valjean does not reply immediately, troubled by these words. The tea is bitter in his mouth. At length, he sets his mug down and says, "I did not learn of grace until I was an old man. I stumbled even after I'd seen it. Would the world be better without me?" Valjean drains the rest of his tea and stands. "Only God can say. So it is with you." Javert holds out his unfinished tea, and Valjean accepts it. He rinses the cups in the sink with the leftover water from the kettle, then lays the dishes to dry. "I would be thankful if you stayed the night, Inspector, but I understand you may have somewhere else to be." 

The ax is poised: It must fall, one way or the other, and the silver of its blade gleams, and the stench of death is thick between them. Javert's face is hidden in shadow, but it is turned up to Valjean. "No," he says, "I do not." 

*

The sun is bright when Valjean wakes. The night's work aches in his body, so that it's with some slowness that he crawls out of bed. How did he carry that boy so far? Valjean massages his shoulder and groans. Marius is with the doctor; Javert is in the sitting room, sleeping on the couch; all those poor boys are dead, and many guardsmen along with them. Valjean knows he should be glad that not all is bleak. His prayers, still, are mournful. 

Valjean has always woken before Cosette, so he does not think to worry as he rouses from his prayer, washes, and dresses. He thinks only of starting some coffee and perhaps coaxing Javert into some spirited conversation about—well, about anything other than last night's events. Perhaps he'll prod the man into telling him something about his youth. Valjean has always been curious to know what life was like for the imposing men who guarded him. 

He is so busy with these thoughts that he does not notice how high the sun has risen while he slept. 

Breakfast, to his surprise, has already been laid out on the dining room table, and Javert is sipping at a mug when he comes in. If the man wasn't so tense, Valjean would almost think he was at home. "Good morning," Javert says.

"You made breakfast?" Valjean asks, admiring the set table. Granted, it's not a feast; a loaf of bread has been set out, some fruit arranged, and a handful of hardboiled eggs stuck in a bowl. 

Javert shrugs and takes a bite of an apple. "It was mostly Cosette."

Valjean's heart stops. "Cosette?"

"Yes. Your 'daughter,' Cosette."

"...Cosette did this." 

"Yes." Javert squints at him. "Is she unfit to handle eggs? I thought she did well."

"You talked to Cosette." Valjean steadies himself with a hand on the table, afraid he might faint. "Where on Earth is she? What did you tell her? Oh, God, Javert, what have you done?"

"I don't know," Javert snaps, obviously nonplussed by this reception. "I was explaining to her how we had met last night when she went into a fit and hurried out the door. If I were to guess, it was over the mention of the boy you carried through the sewers. What did you think, that your daughter would not wonder why a strange man was asleep in her home?"

"What time is it?"

"Nearly ten." Javert takes another bite of the apple and eyes Valjean as one would a family dog that's begun to starve itself and foam at the mouth. "Sit down, Valjean, and breathe."

Sitting down is such a preposterous thought that Valjean straightens his back. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her the truth. Even you cannot wrest that from me."

Valjean crosses the table and grabs Javert by his collar. " _What did you tell her?_ " 

"That—there was a boy who was nearly dead, and that you took him to a doctor. She asked me where, and I knew not, and she ran out without finishing her apple." He points at a plate Valjean had not noticed, with half a piece of bread and an unfinished apple resting haphazardly on its side. "I was not aware this was something that required discretion."

With a moan of anguish, Valjean sinks into a chair. "What if he hasn't survived the night, Javert? What will she do then?"

"Mourn, I suppose." Javert takes up his slice of bread again. It seems such a callous thing to say that Valjean can hardly believe he's said it—does he not understand what he's done? Valjean opens and shuts his mouth several times, struggling to think of a proper response. Javert puts a piece of bread on his plate and scoots a jar of jam toward him. "Eat. I'm sorry if I have upset either of you. If it puts you at ease, she was more excited than anxious when she left. Really, Valjean, were you going to lie to her about what happened?"

Valjean does not reply. With a resigned air, he begins to eat, chewing mechanically. Perhaps Javert was right, but perhaps not. Perhaps the boy is dying in Cosette's arms as he sits and chokes down bread. 

"Valjean," Javert says, interrupting his thoughts. "She is an adult. Let her be. She loves you too much to cast herself into the Seine if he dies." 

Valjean shakes his head, but the truth of that mollifies him enough to taste the food as he eats. Perhaps sensing that he's still in treacherous waters, Javert finishes his meal in silence. "I'll take my leave, soon," he says. To Valjean's surprise, he toys with the mug of coffee like a guilty child might, and he avoids meeting Valjean's gaze. 

"Of course—you must have plenty of work to do."

"No." Javert shrugs. "I've turned in my resignation."

"What? When?"

"Last night." 

Valjean shivers; he can imagine Javert writing out his resignation, sure and calm, already dead in his heart. "What will you do?"

"I knew." There is an accusation in his voice, and Valjean does not miss the sullen way he glances up, but it's mild, tempered by forgiveness. "I still think I know—but it is only a thought. More likely I will work the earth until death claims me."

As if the clouds have broken away, sunlight fills the room; it illuminates Javert—and perhaps Valjean is filled with fancy, perhaps he's half-dreaming, but every inch of him is bright with joy. Javert, untouched and unaware of this change in Valjean, sips his coffee, but even that simple action seems wrought by the beauty of life. In his rush to kiss him, Valjean upends his chair.

_I should not,_ he thinks, grabbing fistfuls of Javert's hair. _We should not,_ and the truth of it exists in his heart even as he tastes the coffee on Javert's lips, even as he runs his hands across Javert's face. The weight of Toulon and Montreuil sur Mer and the barricade bears down on them, the pleasure and pain both too much on their own and unbearable when brought together. But Javert's breath shudders against Valjean's face, and he kisses him back, and his hands stutter along his sides as if he's afraid of finding purchase there but more afraid of not trying at all. 

It never mattered before how they touched; now Valjean finds himself biting Javert with a slip of teeth and bumping foreheads and noses, accidents that should be uncomfortable but that don't deter him. Still kissing, Valjean pulls Javert to his feet; they trip over each other, they kiss and kiss and have to pause: By the doorway, on the couch, in the hallway, so their hands and mouths can work uninterrupted by the unfortunate truth of walking blind. It's a miracle, Valjean thinks, that they make it to his bedroom, bumped but unscathed, and the second best one he's seen this morning. 

When Valjean shuts the door, Javert backs away from him, breathless. "The truth comes out," he declares, half-smiling.

"You idiot," Valjean says, and pushes him onto the bed. He kisses under Javert's jaw and thumbs at his mouth. "You damned fool." Javert sucks his thumb into his mouth, scrapes it with his teeth, and they do not talk after that. Their kisses grow longer. The blinding bliss grows dimmer as Valjean strips them both, as he palms at Javert's cock and rolls him onto his stomach, as he reaches for the bedside table. Javert's mouth opens—his hips jerk into the mattress. Valjean busies himself with Javert's muscled back, leaving long trails of kisses as he spreads Javert's thighs with his knee, as he presses his fingers against him and then presses in. Javert shudders and grunts, hides his pleasure in the mattress, reaches back to slide his fingers along Valjean's shoulder, his arm; they clasp hands.

Valjean begins to thrust his fingers into Javert, slow and easy, taking his time, allowing for him to adjust to being filled like this. His own arousal is thick between his legs, sensitive to every shift and sound, more unbearable with each passing moment. He moves their clasped hands until Javert's hand is on him, and he guides Javert through the motions, jerking himself off with the other man's hand. Javert chokes back a moan as Valjean begins to thrust faster. This is good. He is taking without force or lies; they are not hiding, they are not alone. When the pain sets in and they have to change positions, when Valjean's hand grows tired and he has to pause, it does not matter. This time, he thinks, they have done right by each other.

But they have only been together for a short time when Javert's shoulders begin to shake. His cock is fully erect, his toes curled—he is very close to climax, and Valjean has done all he can to bring this pleasure to him. Despite all this, he turns his face into the mattress. Despite all this, his cheeks are wet with tears when Valjean goes to kiss them.

"Javert?" He pulls his fingers out of Javert and turns him over; Javert's erection has not waned despite his despair. He covers his face and tries to turn away, but Valjean grabs his wrists and pins his hands over his head. Javert's face is flushed, and he chokes back a sob. "What is the matter?" he asks, ashamed of himself. 

Javert shakes his head. A tear slides down his cheek, and Valjean bends, kisses it away. 

"I don't want to hurt you," Valjean murmurs.

He can feel Javert coming; his hips buck against him and the spend pulses out of him in waves. Javert cries through it all, his whole body shaking with it, his face ravaged with the tracks of tears Valjean could not stay. He does not understand. Javert weathered a night of torment without a single tear, and here, in Valjean's bed, with their bodies close and hearts in flight, he weeps without restraint.

"Shh," Valjean breathes, bending over Javert and clutching him to his chest. "Don't cry. Please. Hush now." Tears prick at Valjean's eyes; his throat is tight. 

Javert composes himself slowly, taking in deep, shaking breaths. "Be quiet," he says. "I won't have you start, too. It's nothing, Valjean. It is only—" But whatever it is, Valjean does not know, because Javert stops with a sigh, and he kisses Valjean's hairline.

They lie pressed together, not lost but not quite found. Valjean takes comfort in the fact that no matter the dark places they may go, it will not be alone.


	6. Fields Afar

Javert stays in Paris for a week. He spends most of that time away from Rue de l'Homme-Armé, though Valjean does not know what he's doing. When he asks, Javert merely says that he is arranging his affairs. The few hours that he spends with Valjean hold very little happiness. It's clear that, though he's decided against killing himself, he is troubled. Each time he arrives at the doorstep, he ends up in Valjean's bed—or on his floor, or against the dresser. Each time, he weeps, inconsolable. No matter how Valjean comforts or chides, how roughly or gently they take each other, it always ends the same.

They do not talk often, except to debate the scripture in hushed voices. Javert's curiosity for it is ravenous, and when Valjean attempts to steer the conversation toward something else, he grows sullen and reticent. Valjean notes that Javert never seems to arrive until after Cosette has left, and that he always seems to find a reason to leave before she returns. He supposes that Javert does not wish to incur his anger by slipping up around her again. 

The last day, he arrives on the doorstep with a bag in hand and his cane tucked under his arm. Valjean hopes this means he is here to stay, but doubts it. "Everything is in order," Javert says, whisking off his hat. "I will leave Paris in the morning."

"Ah. So you really do intend to become a farmer?"

Javert shrugs. "Anything else," he says. They stand in the entry hall for a moment, considering each other. "How did you decide?"

"I didn't. It just happened the way it did." 

Javert leans across the distance and kisses Valjean, slowly, and pulls back before Valjean can return it. "I will send you a letter when I settle somewhere." 

"Good," Valjean says, "good." His lips itch to feel Javert's again. It occurs to him that Javert will not let them progress further than that—that he will not want Valjean to remember him undignified. 

"How is the boy?" Javert asks.

"He grows stronger every day. Cosette is very happy."

Javert dons his hat—so soon?—and inclines his head. "That is good news," he says. "May we send more of it through our correspondence." 

"You don't have to go," Valjean hears himself say. 

Javert smiles thinly. "We all do, Valjean. Some of us just go a little faster than the rest." He touches the brim of his hat. "Goodbye."

"Yes," Valjean says, following him to the door. "Take care, Javert." 

He watches him until he is out of sight. 

*

The first letter is three weeks later. It is such a shock that Valjean merely holds it, his thumbs framing the neatly penned address. Even the name is correct, though Valjean does not know why he would expect any different from Javert. Of course he knew. The return address is from a town Valjean has not heard of; he wonders how far it is from Paris, and how long a trip there would take.

The letter itself is simple: _Fauchelevent,_

_The stink is different out here. The men remind me of the sea. They work like animals. The man who has hired me expects me to give up in the week, I believe. I've spent most of the time hauling bales of wheat (they do not trust me with a scythe) and thinking about how convenient you would be here._

_How are you?_

_-J——-_

Valjean's heart pounds as he reads. _The sea_ —he must mean Toulon. But the last sentence is what draws Valjean's eye; convenient, it says, but what does Javert mean by it? It takes Valjean half a day to compose his reply, and he leaves and comes back to it many times over the course of the day, only settling down to finish it when Cosette asks him curiously why he keeps retiring to his room and if he is feeling well.

 _Javert,_ he writes.

_If he expects you to give up, he does not know you very well. You'll get used to the weight of the bales. It must help you sleep at night. I recall you mentioning that you have trouble sleeping, and though I thought of it, I never mentioned how deep my sleeps were after a hard day's work under the sun. I am well, though my roses are giving me some trouble. Marius will not die. Cosette is now engaged. It seems hardly yesterday that she was my little girl. Though she still lives here, there is a divide between us now. What is a Papa to do when he's been replaced?_

_Forgive me, I'm getting sentimental. Do you have any hobbies? It's never occurred to me to ask. I only ever knew you in the context of your work, which seems a pity now that we're old men. ~~I do wonder if it was a mistake to let so~~ _

_Do you have a Bible? Another thing I never thought to ask. I can send one to you for your perusal. If you need an occasion, tell me your birthday and I'll wait and you can pretend it's a surprise._

_Sincerely,  
U. Fauchelevent_

Valjean keeps track of the days until the next letter and opens it before he's shut the door. It's almost been a week: Three days there, three days back, assuming that Javert did not hesitate to reply. 

_Fauchelevent,_

_A father cannot be replaced by a lover nor overshadowed by one. Stop worrying. It's unbecoming._

_No hobbies. One Bible. I do not know my birthday. June 8? As good as any other. Feel like a child, work like a man, ache like a grandfather._

_If it's any consolation, you have not made any mistakes where I am concerned._

_-J-----_

Valjean takes no time with this reply, amused as he is by the disjointed writing. He tries to imagine Javert at the end of a day of farm-work, with dirt caking his arms and dust on his pants, tufts of wheat sticking out of his hair. An interesting image. 

_Javert,_

_Say that again when you've had your precious daughter courted by a strange gentleman and I will take your advice to heart. I find it hard to believe that you have no hobbies to speak of—are you being shy? I will not laugh. I garden and read to pass the time, and speak to my roses when I've finished my prayers and have nothing left to say to God. Why would you have two Bibles?_

_After I asked, I realized I did not know my own birthday—not my natural one or the one that was given to me. It seems so long ago. What was your childhood like? I remember so little; it has almost all washed away, taken by time and the sea. I only remember meaningless things, like a rainstorm in fall or a wagon that had cans tied to the back._

_We've both made mistakes, but it seems we have both forgiven them. That knowledge makes you seem closer to me._

_Sincerely,  
U. Fauchelevent_

A day later, he gets another letter. There is a detailed drawing of a man Valjean does not know; he faces a moonless sky that is dotted with stars. In the corner are the cramped words, _I forgot—there is one._

Valjean writes back: _Beautiful._ That night, he dreams of Javert, and in the dream, he sketches constellations on Valjean’s scars and weeps; the ink runs in rivulets. The stars bleed. But blood that runs is blood from a beating heart, and they both seem to be thinking this as Javert presses kisses to each one.

That morning, Valjean writes, _I dream of you and you weep even then._ He sends the letter before his embarrassment can stop him, and spends the next week pacing, agitated with himself for breaching the subject with so little tact. He is sure that Javert will be angry with him, and so is not surprised when the next letter that comes is cutting and short.

_Fauchelevent ,_

_The sea without the guilt or waves. Stop dreaming._

_-J-----_

Valjean sends a long, rambling letter about his week, peppered with apologies and as removed from their trysts as he can make it. A week passes with no reply, and then another. Valjean rereads the letters Javert has sent him, and perhaps it's in part due to Cosette's inescapable joy, or perhaps it’s entirely justified, but he finds irritation flowering in his stomach. He takes to his desk and writes another letter.

_Javert,_

_Stop dreaming? Javert, you are impossible. I would help you through it if you let me. We're long past the time for games and coyness, don't you think? What do you want in return? Name it and I will give it so we can know peace together._

_Sincerely,  
U. Fauchelevent_

The wait for the next letter is unbearable. August's heat bears down on the city, oppressive and inescapable. The changing seasons only serve to remind Valjean of Cosette's wedding, which draws closer every passing day. When he confessed the truth of his past to Marius, the boy balked—but Cosette had passed onto him the truth of that night, and he swore that he would let no harm befall Valjean. 

His past is a shadow chasing him each day, and he wishes more than anything that Javert would write to him, if only so he could admit his pain. He does not want to lose his daughter, but to taint her new life with Marius with his past—to not be cast out and be able to go, but to be welcomed in and have to turn his back—Valjean does not have the strength for such a thing. 

He secretly hopes that Javert, who abandoned everything, can pass some of his strength onto him. Valjean's seems to be draining by the day. 

It is a full fortnight until the next letter comes. The envelope is thick, and Valjean cannot help but lift it to his face and inhale the scent of the paper and sharp ink and—yes, a dry, earthy smell that must have come from Javert's desk. Valjean goes into the garden, sits in the shade of a tree, and begins to read.

_Fauchelevent,_

_I do not want anything from you. Some days I work and think I am nothing but what you made me, and think that I may only be an extension of you, and that perhaps I have never been more than a marionette. You ask me to explain something that I do not entirely know myself. The men resent me because I do not keep their lies. My testimony three weeks ago put a man in prison, and though it was the right thing by man and by God I still found myself doubting. All I have is doubt now, and the dirt that won't scrub clean, and God, and a handful of letters. Even the stars shake. What can I tell you?_

_When I was a child I sucked on sugarcane. One of the older children got it from somewhere; I never asked. It was likely stolen. All I cared for was the sweetness. My skin burned and grew taut at my joints and I ran barefooted everywhere, with my father in chains and my mother flippant behind bars. She saw nothing wrong with living in prison. Food every day, she said, and clothes on your back—what else could you want? I hate the taste of salt because it reminds me of the sea. I hate the taste of sugar because it reminds me of sunburns. I have grown to hate everything that reminds me of me—playing cards and cudgels and chains. I shudder when I pass the courthouse._

_There were things I never worried about. Boys like me do not find wives, do you understand? I spent decades hunting and felt nothing. I was irreproachable. People turned away from me because they were afraid. I only picked up drawing because it was pertinent to my duties, and from there it became a habit that distracted me from my reading. It is only in the last month that I attempt art. Do you understand? Please tell me you do, for I do not know how to be more clear, ~~Val~~ Fauchelevent. Fine, dream of me, remember me weeping. I have sacrificed everything to leave a different impression, but of course you do not see anything else. Perhaps that's for the better. I hope that someday we can be men to one another, and nothing more._

_I say over and over again to myself that I do not want until it is a type of truth—but a bent truth, a white lie, is no better than a bald-faced lie, so here, take it:_

_You haunt me, ~~Valje~~ Fauchelevent. There. My heart is wood, and at your hand it splits. It should be rotted in the middle but it is not; there is green wick there, and that is more terrifying than if it were to burn. You bring me shame in one hand and absolution in the other, and you ask why I weep? It is because I do not know which I want more. I would ask that you bring the lash on my back, but you would only dab it with salve when you were done. It is because you are who I should have been, but cannot be even now that I know better. No one has ever hated you but me, Valjean, and no one ever will, and you do not even know what you've done._

_I would ask for your forgiveness but I know you would give it without a thought. You render my penitence meaningless._

_That is why._

_Yours,  
-J-----_


	7. An Inn in a Small Town

The letter trembles in Valjean's hands. He is struck vividly by the memory of Javert on his knees, how willingly he knelt and gave himself to Madeleine—it was a lifetime ago. They are both changed men. He reads it several times, then folds it, tucks it into his breast pocket, and stands. He should not dawdle with his reply, but he also does not want to rush into it and say something foolhardy. His heart races as he tends to the garden. 

That night, Cosette asks him if he is feeling well; he does not know how to answer her. It's as if something is changing in him, his foundations quaking with it. When Valjean goes to bed, he lies awake and thinks about Javert hating him. Phantom pains take him by the throat and wrists, lance across his back. Their past, he fears, will never be put to rest. If he cannot do such a thing with Javert, then how could he ever dream of being more than a well-dressed ghoul for Cosette? 

He dreams of Toulon's walls. Javert is there, in a red cassock, his feet bare, and they scrabble for each other's chains.

The next morning, Valjean wakes before the sun and writes by candlelight.

_Javert,_

_At what point will you be happy with your punishment? You will never be free until you learn to welcome the grace of God into your heart. It vexes me that I cannot bring you closer to that grace; it seems unfair that I was thrown into it so soon after my suffering ended and that you cannot find it despite my guidance. This is my fault, I know, but I do wonder if your stubbornness does not hinder you as well._

_I hope it comforts you to know that I see you as a man, first, and a lost soul second. I remember your touch before I remember you on the bridge. I think of your dedication foremost, and that alone is why I asked after your tears. The way I asked was a mistake, but asking itself was not. Thank you for your honesty, Javert._

_I do not care about your penitence. Maybe that is callous. Consider it me returning your callousness over Cosette, then._

_What I do care about is you. God knows that does not suffice—how does the tender heart shield anyone from harm? Well, keep working and living, hate me if it helps, write letters or don't, but do at least try to enjoy yourself, for me._

_I expect I will see you shortly._

_Yours,  
U. Fauchelevent_

Valjean takes his time with his preparations; he will give Javert the week to reply. If the man does not have anything to say in that time, so be it—Valjean's mind will not be changed. He tells Cosette that he has business to take care of, and that he will not be gone longer than two weeks. She seems troubled to see him go, but does not protest, which he's thankful for; if she did, he wouldn't be able to leave at all. 

Javert's reply arrives on the morning of Valjean's departure. If he had left half an hour earlier, he would have missed it, and he does not open it right away, instead tucking it into his pocket and finishing the rest of his preparations. It is only when he's in the carriage that he opens it and reads.

_Fauchelevent,_

_You idiot. ~~I never said~~_

_~~If you knew~~ _

_You idiot. Do you know what I remember? You don't want to know. ~~If I told you it would be a waste of paper and time because you would pick out the most meaningl~~_

_I swear, it would have been so much easier on my health if I had jumped. A broken spine, a lungful of water, and done! Now I'm forced to read your chiding words of comfort. It must be very convenient to not have to care about my misdeeds. I'm amazed that I haven't thought to buy a gun before now. Oh, stop it, I won't. I'm not angry with you. Am I? I don't know, I am stunned. I'm forced to wonder if this is intentional or if you are just that naturally oblivious. Here I thought I had chased a brilliant mastermind for all these years._

_Fine, fine, let me put on silk gloves with you. Tell me about Cosette's wedding. Tell me about your garden. I am sorry. I do not hate you._

_Is there anything you would like me to draw?_

_-J-----_

_P.S. I thought you might be pleased to know that I laughed today. Does that count as enjoying life? It frightened two of the boys I work with._

As the carriage rumbles over the road, Valjean composes his answer. 

*

The wheat fields stretch out like the ocean, bowing to the wind in waves. It was a long walk here from the inn, but Valjean is not fatigued. There are men speckled among the wheat, bent over, their scythes swinging. Most of them are only visible by the way the wheat shivers. Javert is nowhere in sight. That does not mean much—he could be anywhere, hard at work. Valjean would like to see his sweat-stained face, and not for entirely wholesome reasons.

He leans against the fence and waits. 

It takes half an hour before one of the workers stops; Valjean can see him bending toward his fellows in council. At length, one of the older men approaches Valjean, scythe in hand. He stops several yards away and appraises Valjean's dress before speaking. "Can I help you, Monsieur?"

"I hope so," Valjean says. "I am looking for a man called Javert."

"Javert?" The man doffs his cap and wipes the sweat from his brow with it. "Did I hear that right? You want to see Javert? What for?"

"I have news for him." 

The man shifts, keeping a tight hold on his scythe. Whatever suspicions he has are not strong enough for him to decline. "Alright. Can I have your name, sir?"

"Fauchelevent." 

He nods, turns, and disappears into the wall of wheat. The group returns to their work, but Valjean can feel their curious glances. It is maybe fifteen minutes before the wheat shivers again and Javert and the man step into the clearing. 

He is caked with earth and thicker than he was when Valjean knew him, and he has not shaved in several days; without his greatcoat, he looks very—normal. Arousal lurches through Valjean, following on the heels of relief. He had expected something else, perhaps butterflies or anticipation or joy, but not relief—and yet that is undeniably what floods through him as Javert steps forward and catches sight of him. Valjean lifts his hand by way of greeting. Javert merely blinks at him a moment.

Javert thanks the man and cautiously approaches Valjean. Perhaps he thinks he's hallucinating, or maybe recalling his last letter and the frantic anger with which he wrote it. When he is close enough that Valjean can speak without raising his voice, Valjean says, "The place you most want to be."

Javert stares. "What?"

"You asked what I wanted you to draw. I'd like to see the place you'd most like to be."

Javert wipes his face with a sleeve, incredulous. "Yes—hello, Fauchelevent, how are you?" he says. "I am well, thank you. It is not strange at all to see you here."

Valjean laughs. "Forgive me, friend." He clasps the fence so he won't reach out and grab Javert. He wants to feel Javert's pulse under his fingertips. He hadn't realized that a part of him has never truly believed that Javert went away to work and lived and wrote passionate letters about his past. "I am not entirely sure myself what I'm doing here."

"That is clear." Javert takes a measured step back and takes off his cap, twisting it between both hands. He lowers his voice. "Are you staying at the main inn?" he asks, avoiding Valjean’s gaze.

"Yes."

"I finish my work at sunset. I can—meet you, if you want to talk over supper. Sometimes the men go there to drink at night. It is usually noisy." 

Valjean grins. "I look forward to it."

*

The inn, as Javert promised, is boisterous when the sun goes down. Valjean takes to a corner with a glass of wine and waits; Javert does not keep him long. He spots Valjean the moment he enters the inn. He winds his way through the tables and patrons and takes a seat across from Valjean without a word.

"Evening," Valjean says, tipping his wine toward him.

"How much have you had?" Javert asks immediately.

Valjean raises his eyebrows. "Just this." The innkeeper's wife chooses that moment to intervene, and Valjean orders for both of them—Javert starts as if he means to protest, but he seems to think better of it and falls quiet. The silence that settles between them is horribly tense; Valjean had expected that the fluency of their letters would carry into their next interaction, but Javert is hardly looking in his direction. They don't speak until the food has arrived. 

Perhaps the food is a sufficient shield, because Javert speaks before he picks up his fork. "Tell me about Cosette," he says. "Since you're here." 

If that is safe, if that will stop this uncomfortable silence, then Valjean will, gladly. As they eat, he explains the wedding preparations thus far, and Marius's recovery, and the happiness that spills like sunlight out of Cosette now that she can be with her love. Javert is an attentive listener and does not interrupt. 

Inevitably, of course, Valjean's talk strays from the happy facts of the marriage. He can't help himself—he has been holding everything in for so long and Javert is listening without judgment. "I know I should be happy for her. I know it is wrong to want to hold her back. Only, I keep thinking," and his throat tightens, "about how close I am to losing her. I cannot in good conscience follow her into this part of her life, but how can I let my sweet Cosette go?" Tears prick at his eyes. "The light of my life leaves me and I've become a shadow."

For the first time since he entered the inn, Javert frowns. "There's no use in crying about it."

His curtness wounds Valjean. He sets down his glass and leans forward, letting his pain froth like anger in his voice. "Do not mock me," he snaps. "Have you ever loved someone so deeply that their absence could kill?”

Javert turns his head away and takes a drink. 

Oh. _Oh._ Valjean's face grows hot. 

"I suppose," Javert says at length, toying with his napkin, "you haven't thought about talking to her about this. No doubt you think that your history would cause her some unforeseeable misery and shatter her world." He takes the last bite of food and chews it slowly. "Fauchelevent, she knows. I told her the truth. I swear to you, I told her and she laughed. She asked me, 'What did he do?' And when I told her your crimes, she wouldn’t stop smiling."

This cannot be. The inn lurches. Valjean thinks he might vomit. 

"I rather think," he says, slowly, "that Cosette's belief that you are a saint has only intensified." 

Then, "Fauchelevent? Stop that."

Hushed and urgent: "Breathe, Valjean." 

*

The next thing Valjean is aware of is the smell of sweat and a cool rag on his forehead. Then he is aware of Javert's bite. "I can't believe you fainted. What sort of man are you?"

The room spins into focus; there is a lit lamp on the bedside table and several candles burning along the walls. Javert's bearded face looms over him, and his scowl is as impressive as it's ever been. "Javert," Valjean tries. 

"Do you have any idea how heavy you are? Now everyone in the inn is wondering what we're doing up here. What was I supposed to tell them? 'Oh, I'm sorry, my very delicate _Jean-le-Cric_ has fainted because he's frightened by the truth!' 'Oh, don't worry, I'll take him to his room where I expect he'll thank me with his mouth. He'll be fine.'"

"Should I?"

Javert groans. "Damn you. No. Just lay there and try not to faint again. Although," he adds as an afterthought, "I do appreciate that your first instinct was not to knock me out. I feared it might be." 

"You told Cosette."

"Well," Javert grumbles, "it's inevitable when a lady's introduction is, 'Oh, good morning, Monsieur who has appeared like a fairy on our humble couch! How does my Papa know you, Monsieur?'"

Despite himself, Valjean chuckles. Javert's impression of Cosette is inaccurate, but highly amusing. 

"'Ah, Mademoiselle, we are bosom friends.' No, not likely. I mentioned waiting for you outside of the sewers, and from there it was doomed to happen. Your daughter asks too many questions for her own good."

"Perhaps you should learn to lie." 

"Don't be ridiculous." Javert pats the rag across Valjean's cheeks, wiping away dirt or sweat or perhaps just enjoying the act of soothing him. "They drew a bath for you," he says, suddenly. "You do look as if you need it."

Javert picks a piece of wheat from Javert's shirt. The world seems a simpler place than it did yesterday. "Come with me."

"Are you afraid you'll faint again and drown? I could find some rope—"

Valjean grips Javert's face in his hands and yanks him down into a kiss. Javert rests his hands on either side of Valjean, and returns the kiss; he sucks gently at Valjean's bottom lip, and his tongue flicks out to sooth the pressure away. It is difficult to break it once they've started, but Valjean does, and says, husky, "Come with me."

Javert nods. 

The bath is attached to the room; there is a second door that leads to another room, which Javert locks. For a moment they stand and gaze at each other, both of them uncertain; it seems odd that they should hesitate now, when they've taken each other without thought before. Valjean steps forward. 

"Undress," he says. 

Javert does, taking his time. Indeed his body has changed: His skin is darker, his muscles more pronounced, and his arms and hands roughened from his work. Valjean cannot help but admire him, taking in the whole of him, the changes that have brought them to this. He believes he can see the tenuous changes in his soul. They are beautiful.

Without being asked, Javert steps into the bath; the water laps at his skin, and goosebumps stand on his thighs as he sinks down. He stretches as far as the basin will allow, and then peers up at Valjean, peevish and insecure, waiting. 

Valjean rolls up his sleeves, takes the wash cloth and bar of soap, and kneels down. The light from the lanterns flickers on the water; Javert is tense, but he is here, and he is breathing, and when Valjean rubs the wet cloth over his neck, he leans his head the other way, exposing a long line of skin to him. His pulse thrums under his skin, not a dream or illusion.

They are silent as he works. He takes his time, rubbing away grime from behind Javert’s ears, from his neck and face, his back and chest, his arms. Javert's breath is steady, but his body responds; his cock stiffens against his thigh, and he arches against the water as Valjean teases dirt away. His mouth opens when Valjean scrubs at the small of his back. 

Shifting so he is behind Javert, Valjean wraps his arms around him—presses Javert's head to his chest—and gently cleans his hips. His thighs. Under the sensitive skin of his knees. Javert's breath rasps, and he scrabbles at the edge of the bath for purchase, sliding against him—the water sloshes onto the floor. "Valjean," he grits as Valjean works his way back up Javert's thighs. "I—" 

Valjean wraps his hand around Javert's prick. This he cleans, too, slowly, teasing back his foreskin and touching carefully, so carefully—a rhythmic motion that is easy and loving. He is not surprised when Javert comes, and kisses at the tears that paint his cheeks. 

He peels off his damp clothes and climbs in. Javert pulls his legs back, giving him room, and Valjean takes the opportunity to grasp one of his feet—these, he left for last, and treats with the most reverence. Javert shivers in the lukewarm water as Valjean massages his feet, careful, as if he handles delicate china. He prays silently Javert's safe deliverance. He prays for them. 

When he finishes, Javert climbs into his lap and rests his head in the crook of Valjean’s neck. He settles his hand over Valjean's heart. 

"Let it grow," Valjean says. 

Javert kisses his neck. "I'll try."


	8. Home

Javert does not come back with him to Paris. 

The summer heat finally breaks into autumn's sweet coolness, and they keep a steady correspondence. The distance makes navigating these strange new waters easier, and he knows Javert needs this separation. Still, he wishes that they could sit with each other, within reach. He is sentimental in his old age. It can't be helped.

Autumn gives way to winter, and Cosette is married. The loss of her is an open wound, and he sends his longest letter yet to Javert, admitting his fears and sadness, expecting dismissal and cutting remarks but needing to tell someone who can respond. Javert sends him several drawings, one after another, each sweet and solemn. It's a comfort. As the snow piles up, the letters become more frequent; they send them almost daily, so that each letter they receive is addressing the past and they are never quite caught up to each other. 

One day, there is a knock on the door, and when Valjean goes to answer, it is to find Javert on the other side with a bag in one hand and his cane under an arm. "Your letters depress me," he tells Valjean matter-of-factly, and then kisses his brow.

*

One last letter arrives at No. 5, two days after Javert. 

_Fauchelevent,_

_I never did draw what you wanted. When you asked, I did not know myself where I would be happiest. Hell? Heaven? The answer is much more mundane than that._

_I expect I shall see you soon._

_Yours,  
-J-----_

*

He cries, still, months later, but by the time spring is turning back into summer, it lessens—it becomes tears in his eyes, a wary acceptance.

Then, as much to his surprise as Valjean's, it stops.

They are pressed together; he is soft between Valjean’s legs, and his mouth is gentle at the nape of his neck. They are tired and spent, and though it is still early in the afternoon, are both drifting in and out of consciousness. The realization comes to Valjean slowly—there is no wetness, no hitched breaths, no shaking—nothing but Javert's calm breathing and his hand in Valjean's hair. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, testing.

Javert huffs, almost a laugh. "Terrible, really." There is no thickness to his voice. He is calm. He is well. 

"Well," Valjean says, and takes his hand, and kisses his fingers. "Do tell me if conditions improve."

"Unlikely."

They remain there, content, until a peaceful dusk settles over their home.


End file.
